


Propriety

by anniehow



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:10:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniehow/pseuds/anniehow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was much to do before he could allow himself even a hint of his own red eyes"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Propriety

**Author's Note:**

> There seems to be a serious lack of Carson POVs on Tom after Sybil's death. Let me rectify that.

There was little to be done except to keep everything running as smoothly as possible. Fortunately, Carson was a master at this.

He slept little through the rest of the night, lying instead in his bed, with his eyes closed, trying at least to rest his limbs while he kept his mind occupied with making plans. Accounting for contingencies; Downton had seen its fair share of mourning, but it wasn’t since the last heir had died that it was someone from the family, and it wasn’t since the late Lord had passed that it was someone both from the family and from the house itself.

And it hadn’t been since Miss Swire, or poor William, that it was a bright, young life snuffed too soon, that had touched them all.

He got up earlier than usual, and was gratified to see that Mrs Hughes was up and about as well, rounding up the maids and directing Anna and Miss O’Brian in the search of enough black clothes for everyone. Knowing that he could count on her to keep a clear head and pull more than her share of the work was a great comfort to him.

“That poor boy will need mourning clothes as well,” she reminded him, “And we must find a nurse that will stay beyond the weaning now.” She was right, of course. To his shame he realized he had been making plans all along for the family and the servants, but he had quite forgotten about the Bransons. In his own brand of grief he had turned inwards, and would have done a grave disservice to Lady Sybil’s memory if left to his own devices. He was too embarrassed to admit it, but he thanked Mrs Hughes sincerely for her help, and she simply replied to make no mention of it.

Thomas- Mr Barrow was as hollowed-eyed as some of the soldiers he’d seen during the war, and Carson decided not to ask him to do more than strictly necessary to look after His Lordship. Mr Mosley took up most of the slack, in that confused manner of his at times of stress, and Albert was a fine hard-working lad but he didn’t trust him to have mastered the tact needed for a delicate situation like this. Times like these he really missed having Mr Bates around.

Fortunately Mr Matthew had already endured deep mourning, and as such had an appropriate wardrobe from which to dig into, and like for most other social engagements that’s where they went to get something appropriate for Mr Branson.

With Mr Mosley dressing Mr Crawley and looking after Sir Tapsell, and Mr Barrow dealing with His Lordship, Carson took it upon himself to see to Mr Branson. The clothes would need modifying, of course, but for the moment they would do, and nobody would find a reason to breath a word against Mr Branson’s appearance, of that Carson could make sure. And, since it was pretty much all that he could do for the young man on this sad occasion, he made sure to do it to the best of his abilities.

He knocked on the door to the room that had been prepared for the father, after the birth of the baby; he was no later than the valets with their charges, thanks in large part to his own early start and to the help of all the staff. If they could keep the pace up throughout the day and all the way to the funeral they would manage to make it with the full dignity the passing of Lady Sybil deserved. He should probably make some speech to the staff about it.

Mr Branson didn’t reply, but he hadn’t expected him to. He went in to find him leaning next to a window, looking out to the pale morning. He was in his pyjamas, with his nightgown open and his hair in disarray, much as he had last seen him during the commotion right after-

“Morning, Mr Branson,” he said steadily, feeling that a ‘good’ was entirely inappropriate there.

“Is it already?” Tom replied, as though to a statement rather than a greeting. “I suppose the night is passed now, so it must be morning,” he continued, still gazing out of the window. His voice sounded wrecked, a barely-there rasp. Carson hadn’t heard any more shouting after-

But then, he could make an educated guess as to how Mr Branson had passed the remainder of the night.

“Breakfast will be served shortly,” he informed him quietly, laying out the clothes he had brought with him on the bed. “I don’t imagine you’ll have much of an appetite, given... but I would advise you to try and eat anyway: you have a long day ahead, and you must keep up your strength.”

Mr Branson didn’t appear to have heard him, because he made no remark and he didn’t even turn from the window. Carson sighed. This was exactly what he was afraid of.

He went closer to the younger man, holding the black jacket out to show him. Up close, the pallor and the morning shadow of his beard were much more noticeable.

“Mr Branson,” he called, voice firm but gentle. Tom turned towards him. “I’ve brought up one of Mr Crawley’s black suits. Put it on before coming down.”

Tom stared in his general direction for a moment, then his eyes dropped to the jacket. “Right. Yes, thank you Mr Carson,” he mumbled, nodding his head without the barest hint of comprehension.

Carson considered him for a long moment. He saw yet another young man, lost and set adrift, as he had sadly seen many during and after the war. Mrs Hughes would probably call it a broken heart. Carson wasn’t particularly prone to sentimentality, but in this instance he’d bow to her superior judgement.

Back to the matter at hand, though, it meant that he could see very little chance of Mr Branson pulling himself together enough to make a fit appearance downstairs if left to his own devices, as he had planned.

Carson hadn’t served as valet since the late Lord Grantham, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t lost the touch; at the very least, he knew he could run circles around Barrow and the rest of them.

“It’s time to start the day, Tom,” he said quietly, putting hand on the young man’s shoulder. Mr Branson went complacently, letting himself be guided to the dressing table and sitting down seemingly without even realizing he was doing so.

Carson had one of the maids fetch some warm water, and found Mr Branson’s shaving kit. He used the same brand Carson did, so when he worked up a lather it filled the room with a familiar scent. Seeing as how Mr Branson didn’t acknowledge what was happening, Carson took extra care in not cutting him with the razor; but his fear of startling the young man, or of his jerking at an inopportune time proved unfounded, and perhaps that should have been worrying, but at the moment it meant he could do his job much more easily and so he took it as a blessing.

It also meant that he had to dress him almost entirely, not only handing him each garment but also prompting him to do up buttons and tuck in lapels: if Mr Branson didn’t oppose any resistance to his ministrations, he didn’t offer much assistance either.

Without any dilly-dallying he shaved him and got him out of his night things and into Mr Matthew’s clothes in a satisfyingly short time. He adjusted the fit as best as he could, even passed a comb through Tom’s hair, until he damn near looked impeccable. Carson stepped back and admired his handy-work. Tom Branson looked every inch the part of the English gentleman in mourning, save for his red-rimmed eyes. He hoped that the young man would take Lord Grantham as an example and refrain from overt displays of emotion, but perhaps the Irish couldn’t help themselves.

There was nothing more he could do here, and a great many more things to attend to elsewhere, so he collected what he needed to and took his leave. “Breakfast will be laid out shortly, Mr Branson,” he reminded him as a parting remark.

“Mr Carson,” Tom called, and for the first time he seemed to shake himself from his stupor, and looked him right back in the eye. “Thank you,” he whispered, and it was heartfelt. Carson inclined his head in acknowledgement, and closed the door behind him softly.

He allowed himself the space of a sigh to collect himself, and then turned and walked into the rest of the day. There was much to do before he could allow himself even a hint of his own red eyes.


End file.
